What the Cat Saw (23 page)

Steve didn’t need a reminder of the incidents. He’d written too many stories to forget a single one. Instead, he focused on dates.
The car was set afire in September. After a lapse of two months, several acts of vandalism occurred. Was the car fire an anomaly, independent of the other incidents? Maybe the car fire gave someone an idea.

The fire caused no harm to the foundation. The later vandalism was clearly intended to cause problems for Haklo. The fire could have been set by anyone. The destruction of the Indian baskets, water damage in Robbie’s office, theft of Blythe’s necklace, and use of Blair’s letterhead could have been done only by someone familiar with the foundation.

The vandalism could have had any of several objectives: To harass either Haklo or its trustee, Blythe Webster, to mar the stewardship of the new director, to make the theft of the necklace appear simply to be another in a series of unlawful acts, or as an act of revenge by a disgruntled current or former employee.

Katie Dugan settled on the fact that no vandals had ever struck at Haklo until this fall. Katie believed newcomer Chloe Farley committed the vandalism but that her goal was to take the necklace. The lapse of time between the car fire and the destruction of the Indian baskets supported Katie’s theory. Chloe likely would not have known until she’d worked at Haklo for several weeks that Blythe Webster kept a quarter-million-dollar necklace lying in a desk drawer in her unlocked office.

However, Chloe was not the only new employee at Haklo since summer. He thumbed through notes. Hollis Blair arrived August first. Abby Andrews was hired August fifteenth.

Steve stared at the list. Why was there a two-month lag between the car fire and the hacked baskets? Maybe when he knew the answer to that, he’d know the truth behind vandalism, theft, and murder.

He clicked several times on his computer. The burned car had been front-page news. Who had handled that investigation?

N
ela turned into the main Haklo drive. She was alert as she passed the main building and turned left to drive to the employee lot, but she didn’t see any police cars. Nela parked again between the Thunderbird and the Dodge. Louise’s car was also in the lot. Nela looked in every direction as she walked to the staff entrance. When she stepped inside and the door sighed shut behind her, she scanned the hallway. No trace of police. It seemed strange to be wary of the police. Her uncle Bob had been a sergeant in the LAPD, a big, ebullient, loud man. Her aunt always worried. A cop never knew when a stopped car might harbor danger, yet every day cops walked toward cars, some with tinted windows. They carried a gun in a holster, but they approached empty-handed, keeping streets safe for ordinary people.

Lights spilled from Louise’s open door. In Chloe’s office, Nela dropped her purse into a desk drawer. Despite the lack of a police presence, she continued to feel apprehensive. What was Detective Dugan doing now? Driving to Haklo to interrogate Nela again? But the detective had no reason to inquire into Nela’s activities Monday night. Surely she was focused on a search for the missing skateboard.

Nela hung Chloe’s large jacket on the coatrack, checked the clock. She stepped to the open door between the offices.

Louise’s office was brightly lit. She looked up. “Good morning, Nela.” Although her face was wan, she made an effort to smile. “That’s a pretty skirt.”

“Thank you, Louise.” Nela’s wardrobe was limited by what she’d
managed to put in one suitcase. The long swirling skirt was silk with a pattern of blue and black circles. She added a crisp white blouse and black pumps. It was one of her best outfits, one she’d often worn when working as a reporter. If she saw Steve…But she wouldn’t see him. She’d turned him away, listened to the fading sound of his footsteps. The thought brought a quick stab of unhappiness. She wanted to see him. She didn’t want to see him.

“…put some more application folders on your desk. After you finish the summaries and deliver the morning mail, please pick up the proofs of a new scholarship brochure from Peter.” She looked a little defiant. “He sent me the brochure online but I still like to look at paper.” She gave a decided nod and turned back toward her computer.

Nela settled at Chloe’s computer. It was important for her to act as if Haklo’s troubles didn’t affect her personally. As she read and typed, willing herself not to think of Steve, she listened, alert and wary, for the brisk sound of official steps in the hallway. She felt like a fish in a barrel, easy prey. As soon as possible, she had to figure a way to discover the truth behind the tangled relationships at Haklo, what mattered and what didn’t matter, who had stolen a necklace and committed murder to prevent exposure.

She’d started her investigation with Erik Judd. He’d been willing to talk to her, but would any of the rest of the staff be willing to respond?

Her fingers hung in the air above the keyboard.

Maybe there was a way to take advantage of her reporter background. She glanced up at the clock. In a few minutes, she was scheduled to deliver the mail to Haklo staff, starting, of course, with Blythe Webster. Monday morning, as soon as Blythe heard
from members of the grants committee about the obscene letters with the Haklo director’s letterhead, she had set in motion a thorough search. She hadn’t been passive, hadn’t waited for anyone else to take charge. Tuesday the police dropped the bombshell of the anonymous call claiming Marian Grant’s death was instead murder. Blythe made it clear at that meeting that all staff members were to cooperate with the authorities. Yes, the police were investigating, but Blythe might see a role for Haklo itself to seek truth. And maybe Nela could help.

S
teve dropped into the straight chair next to Mokie Morrison’s desk. “Glad I caught you.” Most of the other desks in the detectives’ room were unoccupied.

Mokie was cheerful. “Katie believes in old-fashioned shoe leather. At least she didn’t send me out to check with the sanitation guys to see if anybody noticed a skateboard disappearing into the jaws of death last week. In case you’re wondering, the jaws of death are those big choppers that grind up garbage when the guys throw stuff in. The choppers can turn metal pylons into mincemeat, damn near. The garbage guys need to watch their elbows and hands. That’s just one hazard. Do you know anybody who works harder than garbage guys? Hang on and freeze their butts in winter. Hang on and bake in summer. And, man, the smell. And they’re supposed to check out the trash before it splinters? I don’t think so. Anyway, Katie’s frustrated. Plus too many places in this case—the apartment behind the Webster mansion and the assistant curator’s cottage on the Haklo grounds—don’t have any convenient nosy parker neighbors. So I got no complaints about my assignment, but Marian Grant’s banker and
lawyer aren’t ready to chummy up with the cops. Lots of mutters about court orders, sanctity of client information. Me, I think the whole idea that Marian Grant was murdered is just another poke by the Haklo Vandal, one more way to make things awkward for the T. It’s kind of a blot on Haklo’s shiny bright rep if somebody bumped off the COO. The hell of it is, nobody can prove murder or accident, but once the story’s out there, some people will believe in murder and think there’s a big cover-up.”

Steve was casual. “Maybe, but it’s funny that the tip was specific, a skateboard on the second step, and then it turns out one of the Haklo people is missing a skateboard. That gives the story some legs.”

Mokie leaned back in his chair. “Nah. The Haklo Vandal used a skateboard in that call you got because the Vandal spotted a skateboard on the cabin porch and then, to muddy things up even more, filched the skateboard.”

“The skateboard disappeared before the call was made.”

“So? Can’t say the Haklo Vandal doesn’t plan ahead. Anyway, what can I do for you.” Mokie smothered a yawn. “Got to be more interesting than listening to lawyers and bankers talk in great big circles.”

Steve pulled some folded copy paper out of his pocket. “You covered the Camaro fire out at Haklo. I know it’s been a while, but I’d like to run through what you remember.”

“Oh, man.” Mokie’s eyes gleamed and he sat up straight. “Hot stuff.”

“The fire?” Weren’t fires always hot?

Mokie’s eyes squinted in remembrance. “Nah. The babe. Stacked.” He moved his hands in a modified figure eight. “Boobs with a life of their own. Hips…” He sighed. “Inquiring officer couldn’t touch but he could dream. At least I got to sit in the back of the patrol car
with her. Inches away.” He wriggled his nose. “Gardenia perfume. Like a summer night in the bushes with a babe.”

Steve shook his head. “If you can get past primal appeal, tell me about the fire.”

Mokie grinned. “Man, you got to remember, first things first. Wow. Drop-dead gorgeous. As for the fire”—his tone was suddenly matter-of-fact—“let me take a look.” He swung around to his computer, clicked a couple of times. “Yeah. Here it is. Call came in at three fifteen, car on fire in Haklo staff lot. Arrived at three twenty-two. Bystanders wringing hands. Fire truck arrived at three twenty-four. Flames shooting from Camaro windows. Fire out by three thirty-eight.” Mokie’s nose wrinkled. “Pretty bad stink. Plastic seats melted by heat, interior destroyed, car turned out to be totaled. A gardener called in the alarm, tried to douse the blaze with a watering hose. The sirens brought people outside and somebody alerted the Camaro owner, who came running outside. One Anne Nesbitt.” A deep breath. “Man, I wish I’d been there to see her run. Daffodil yellow cotton top, molded, tight cream skirt. Very short.”

“The fire,” Steve reminded gently.

“Somebody splashed the interior with gasoline, stood back, and lobbed a wad of burning rags.” He raised a crooked black brow. “That was pretty clever. The arsonist was smart enough to know there could be a flash explosion so the perp used a kid’s bow and arrow. The bow was in a plastic trash barrel at the edge of the parking lot. No fingerprints. A piece of a plastic shaft, all that didn’t melt, was found inside the car. Arson investigators can figure out a lot from residue. Anyway, that’s the theory.” He raised a crooked black brow. “I always figured it was some dame who was jealous of the victim. A bow and arrow sounds girlie.”

“Did you trace it?”

Mokie raised both eyebrows. “Like we can trace the sale of a Walmart toy. You know how many Walmarts there are in a fifty-mile radius? You can bet the perp didn’t get the bow and arrow in Craddock. No luck there. Actually, no luck anywhere. I dug hard and didn’t find a whiff of anybody who had a grudge against the babe.”

“How about hard feelings on the staff?”

“Why? Because she’s gorgeous?” A slight frown tugged at his brows. “Have to admit there didn’t seem to be any loiterers out there that afternoon. The gardeners didn’t see anybody walking around. One guy claimed nobody came in by the service road. The only other access was to park in front and either come through the main door or walk down the east road. The east road was closed off for some repair work that afternoon. The crew didn’t see anybody. I asked her every which way I knew and she couldn’t tell me anybody that was mad at her. I checked out which staff members were there that afternoon. You want the list?”

Steve nodded.

Mokie clicked twice. “Easier to say who wasn’t there. Hollis Blair was in Kansas City at a meeting. Everybody else was on site. You can’t say I didn’t give it my all.” His mouth slid into a suggestive smile. “I talked to her a half-dozen times. Finally”—a regretful sigh—“I had to give up. There was no rhyme, no reason.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, slid his thumb several times over the small screen. “Take a gander.”

Steve looked at the image. Mokie hadn’t exaggerated. Anne Nesbitt was a babe, shining thick golden hair, delicate intriguing classic features, and, not to be missed by any male between ten and ninety, a voluptuous body.

N
ela was midway through the stack of folders when Chloe’s phone buzzed. “Nela Far—”

“Come to my office at once.” Blythe Webster’s voice was sharp with a tense undertone. The connection ended.

Nela took a steadying breath as she replaced the receiver. Obviously, Detective Dugan had shared her suspicions of Chloe and Nela with Blythe. Was Blythe going to fire Chloe and her substitute on the spot? Nela walked up the hallway with her shoulders squared.

She stepped through the open door to Blythe’s office. Each time she’d been in this elegant office, there had been a background of tension. The first time she’d overheard the worried exchange between Blythe and Hollis occasioned by the arrival of obscene letters on Haklo stationery. The second time she had slipped inside with the stolen necklace, eager to leave the jewelry behind and escape. The third time Steve Flynn marched her inside, but the glitter of gold and diamonds had persuaded him that Nela—and Chloe—were innocent of wrongdoing.

Now the office was once again a backdrop to drama.

Blythe Webster stood rigid next to her desk. She wore her luxuriant dark mink coat and held a sheet of paper in one hand. On the desktop lay a white envelope that had been opened. “Shut the door. Where did this letter come from?”

Nela stared at the trustee’s haggard face and realized in a welling of relief that Blythe had not called Nela into the office to accuse her or to fire her.

“The letter, where did it come from?” Blythe’s voice wobbled. “Answer me.”

“I didn’t bring the letter. I haven’t made deliveries yet this morning. I was summarizing—” She broke off. Blythe didn’t care about Nela’s work. She cared only about how the envelope had reached her desk.

In a jerky movement, Blythe reached toward the envelope, stopped inches away. She stared for a moment, pulled open the center drawer, picked up a pen, used the end to tip the envelope address side up. “There’s no stamp. If the letter didn’t come through the mail”—Blythe’s words were reluctant—“someone must have put it on my desk.” Her lips compressed, she turned and picked up the telephone receiver. “Rosalind, have there been any visitors in the building this morning?” She listened. “No visitors?” Her expression was grim when she replaced the receiver.